I never say this out loud.
I do not even like writing it now.
But I think there is a part of me that waits for certain likes the way I once waited for certain touches.
It is awful to see it written.
Even worse to admit it.
Because if I am honest, I am not waiting for a reaction.
I am waiting for confirmation.
Proof.
Something small.
Something ridiculous.
Something that tells me I am still here.
That I still occupy space inside someone’s mind.
I upload a photograph.
I close the app.
I open it again thirty seconds later.
Then again.
And again.
As though I were checking the pulse of a patient.
As though I had left part of my body inside the screen.
The most embarrassing part is not doing it.
The most embarrassing part is the feeling beforehand.
The anticipation.
That moment when nothing has happened yet.
But the body is already responding.
I am already imagining names.
Already imagining who will see the image.
Who will stop.
Who will not.
Who will keep scrolling.
There is something deeply humiliating about giving so much power to such a tiny gesture.
A finger.
A heart.
An icon.
And yet it happens.
It happens far more often than I would like to admit.
The room is silent.
Only the glow of the phone.
Only my face reflected in the glass.
Only this strange feeling that I am waiting for a verdict.
Sometimes the notification arrives.
And I feel relief.
A relief so brief it is almost embarrassing to call it happiness.
It lasts seconds.
Maybe less.
Then it disappears.
And the hunger returns.
I think that is what unsettles me.
Not the desire to be seen.
The ease with which I can become someone who needs to be seen.
The submission hidden inside that need.
Because nobody forces me.
Nobody orders me to open the application.
Nobody demands that I look at the numbers.
And yet I return.
Again and again.
As though something were calling me.
As though some part of me had chosen to kneel before a statistic.
It is absurd.
And yet it happens.
The lime returns.
It always returns.
The white walls.
The cracks.
The suspended dust.
Every notification feels like another layer.
Another sediment.
Another mineral film settling over something that used to be simple.
Once it was enough just to exist.
Now sometimes I want evidence.
Receipts.
Confirmations.
Tiny digital certificates proving that I am still visible.
I need to move my neck.
I am not moving it.
The screen is still glowing.
Nothing new has arrived.
But I keep looking.
As though something might save me.
As though the next heart could explain something.
As though the lime had learned how to count.
The Like
It shouldn’t matter this much.
Honestly.
It’s ridiculous.
I don’t even know that person.
And yet I’ve been checking my phone all afternoon.
As if I’m waiting for something.
As if something important is about to happen.
The worst part is that I know exactly what I’m waiting for.
A heart.
A like.
A tiny sign.
Something so small that it’s embarrassing to admit.
I posted the picture.
Nothing special.
I looked at it ten times before posting.
Maybe twenty.
Wondering if it looked too obvious.
Too suggestive.
Too needy.
In the end I posted it anyway.
Then the waiting began.
I tried to do other things.
Read.
Work.
Watch something.
But part of me stayed there.
Inside the phone.
Waiting.
When the first notification appeared, I felt something stupid.
A little warmth.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a small jolt in my chest.
And I hated myself a little for it.
Because it shouldn’t mean anything.
Because I always say I don’t need approval.
That I don’t care.
That I’m independent.
A lie.
At least today.
Today I cared.
And the more I cared.
The more embarrassed I felt.
The strange thing is that it wasn’t really about the picture.
It was about imagining who was looking at it.
Who stopped scrolling for a few seconds.
Who became curious.
Who wondered something about me.
I don’t know why that affects me so much.
Maybe because I’ve spent weeks reading.
Watching.
Discovering parts of myself I didn’t know were there.
And now every little signal feels stronger.
More personal.
More dangerous.
As if every small reaction confirms something I’m still not ready to say out loud.
Tonight I’ve checked the notifications again.
Several times.
Too many times.
And while doing it, I kept telling myself it was stupid.
That tomorrow I’ll forget about it.
That it means nothing.
But part of me already knows I’ll check again.
And maybe that’s the thing I’m most embarrassed about.
I have to move my neck I am not moving it…
